A Fifth of Scotch and a Fresh Pack of Batteries
by Searider Falcon
Summary: C.C. Babcock's love life involves her and her alone. Sort of.


**Title:** A Fifth of Scotch and a Fresh Pack of Batteries

**Author:** Rina (Searider Falcon)

**Summary:** C.C. Babcock's love life involves her and her alone. Sort of.

**Disclaimer:** The Nanny and its characters are all the property of Sony Pictures, High School Sweethearts, and Sternin & Fraser's Ink, Inc. I make no profit from writing and sharing this story.

**A/N:** If the title and the rating aren't enough of a giveaway, this ficlet is 100% pure, unapologetic PWP of the self-loving kind. Sort of.

* * *

C.C. can't drink scotch anymore without thinking of how its flavor lingered on both their lips and tongues that one confusing evening. She tries to drink it only in certain, very controlled circumstances now, but sometimes, like tonight, she forgets until it's too late and she's left dizzy with need until she's finally alone, finally able to do something about it.

Since she's already worked up into such a state, she lets herself pour another glass. At least hers is a better quality than what she had earlier at the party. At least she's in the privacy of her own home now, where she can deal with this ache at last.

The liquor is smooth. It warms and loosens her limbs, leaves her feeling floaty, pleasant. C.C. savors the taste as she slides the thin straps of her chemise from her shoulders. With a flick of her wrist, she sends her bedroom into relative darkness, the only light dancing from the flames of the candles she lit.

Fingertips trail across her neck as she settles down upon the cool sheets. She shivers. Her other hand skims across the curve of her hips, teasing and tempting her. She imagines a heavier, firmer hand grasping and guiding, tracing and taunting.

It's him. Of course, it's him. Always his touch, his kisses, his voice. She's not sure when it stopped being Maxwell and she rather not think about why trading him out for _him_ instead provides much more effective fodder for her fevered imagination. Introspection is not her style.

Her physical knowledge of him isn't extensive, made up of little moments that she pieces together. It's just enough to build a fantasy. She remembers what it's like to have his body pressed tight against her at least. The memory of his firm, confident hands tugging her hips and chest to his, of his fingertips brushing against her skin while soft but demanding lips met hers, sustains these illusions.

Her breath hitches as she thinks about him curling a finger into the low neckline of her lingerie. Arching her back, she lets herself believe it's him peeling it from her body without hesitation. There are times when she needs gentle but this is not one of those. Tonight, she requires unrelenting and wild. The thought of him caressing every sensitive part of her leaves her panting in anticipation. It's not her hands running across her inner thighs now but his instead, and her legs part to welcome that touch.

She thinks of his eyes and the deeper shade of blue they become on certain occasions. Those eyes, more than anything else, despite his efforts and his words, unintentionally tell all when she catches his gaze sweeping across her curves, when she stands too close, or she impresses him with a particularly sly zinger. The attraction is certainly mutual. When she slips the vibrator inside herself, she thinks of his eyes locking with hers and how much darker they might still become in such a moment.

It's always that voice in her ear these days and that's the part where she must exercise the most creativity. She suspects her imagination, while good, can't begin to compare or compete with the reality of actually hearing that deep timbre whisper in her ear, against her neck, her torso, everywhere. Somehow, this part that thrills her the most.

Would their banter extend into the bedroom? It's almost impossible to believe it could be any other way. Yes, that offbeat repartee is a necessary element, perhaps interspersed with a few confessions of a certain nature that she's prone to deny needing to hear, especially from him. And even more especially from herself.

Or maybe he'd put that wicked tongue to even better use? Oh god. Her blood rushes at the thought and she quickens the pace as she feels her orgasm approaching, her hips rising to meet each stroke, the rhythm becoming more and more unsteady the closer she gets to it.

Would there be a point where he'd lose all control of his faculties, too, his body driven to pure instinct, just like her? She wants to believe she holds that kind of power, the ability to push him to the point of complete incoherency, where he can only groan and drive deeper into her until neither of them can contain it any longer.

That's what always takes her to the edge as well and sends her soaring over it, crying in exaltation, though she still resists moaning the name that's on her lips. Saying it means really, truly admitting it and that's just not going to happen if she can help it.

No, she still won't call out to him. Not really. It doesn't count when it's not so much a cry as it is a sigh, a whimper, a murmured prayer. Not when it's so quiet that it's muffled by her shudders and the rustle of the sheets still clutched in her fist. It'll be easier to face him in the sobering, stark light of morning, at least, if she tries to convince herself that it wasn't quite him at all. This she keeps as her secret.


End file.
